Outlet
by Tom Tomorrow
Summary: In their eyes, she is a criminal. An animal. A monster. And monsters get no rights. Wanda's powers have always needed an outlet. Chaos doesn't bode well in enclosed spaces. (Civil War Spoilers)
She does not argue.

She does not fight.

She does not say a word.

Not at the airport when the remaining members of Captain America's team are rounded up by Ross's men.

Not when the thirty soldiers train their guns on her, after she's willingly surrendered, and force her down on her knees.

Not when they slam on the globular handcuffs, tightening them just enough to hurt. Just enough to make them leave marks.

Not when they march her, their hands gripped tightly on their aimed weapons, past the Widow, past King T'Challa, past Captain Rhodes, Anthony Stark, and the Vision. Once her friends. Once her mentors. Now she cannot even look them in the eye.

The men are vocal. Clint is sarcastic, Sam complains, Scott makes a halfhearted joke. Wanda knows it is all a front. She can feel their worry, directed towards their families, towards their captain, towards their situation. The quinjet has long since disappeared, meaning that Steve and James Buchanan are safe, but their fates are unknown. And as Sam's eyes search the sky, Wanda wonders if she should voice her opinion. Then the butt of a gun rams into her back and she stumbles.

To slow to follow an order. Or not fast enough. Regardless, Clint erupts.

A punch to the jaw. Begrudged silence. The others wince.

Her own anger flares. Red wisps flare in accordance.

But when she turns to look at the soldier, safeties click off, men steady their aim, Stark's team remains stoic. And she deflates. The red wisps retreat.

The soldier repeats his order.

And she follows.

She does not argue.

She does not fight.

She does not say a word.

The men don't lower their guns.

She does not argue when they present her with the straightjacket on the Raft. Peels of anxiety, fear, and hatred radiate from the soldiers, hitting her in steady droves.

Her gut twists. Her skin pales. Her jaw clenches. Red swirls to the surface.

Because she knows she doesn't want to do this. But she knows she has to do this. She has to take the path of least resistance. To help Steve. To help his friend James. To help save the world.

Clint murmurs something encouragingly from his cell, when she hesitates. Cursing at the guards when they try to interrupt him. And she knows he's trying to usher her along. Because the guards are getting antsy. And they've been known to be trigger-happy.

So she doesn't argue. She doesn't say a word.

Not when they slide her arms into the sleeves. Tightening it so much that she can barely feel her fingers. Tightening it so much that it feels like she can't breathe.

Then they bring out the collar.

And with renewed vigor, the men protest.

"Come on guys, she's not an animal!" Scott groans.

Sam says it's dehumanizing. Clint says it's cruel. Says that she's just a kid.

But they don't care. And Wanda knows better than to complain.

She is not a citizen. She is not a kid. She is not even considered a human to them.

In their eyes, she is a criminal. An animal. A monster. And monsters get no rights.

The collar is clicked around her neck. The scarlet wisps disappear.

Then they provide an agonizing example of what would happen if she tried anything.

Wanda does not fight back.

Ross's men do not understand her power.

The collar does not take her power. Nor does it subdue it. It just prevents the scarlet from expelling itself outward.

So the scarlet turns itself inwards. Running along her insides. Bouncing off the walls. Sending tingling sensations up her nerves. Searching for an exit.

Around her the men talk. A lot. About things that have no relevant meaning. About quiches and cars and sports. Whether it's to distract themselves or to annoy the security men watching the feed, she does not know.

They try to draw her into the conversation. Worry lacing their tones, even when their voices are upbeat.

"Mercedes are obviously better than Cadillacs! Right Wanda?"

"Wanda isn't going to agree with you. She knows that you either have a Cadillac or walk!"

Wanda does not respond. She doesn't say a word. She feels bad for a second. Then the furious scarlet makes itself known again.

She's distracted.

Boredom breeds danger.

She's taken to being as still as possible. The guards are waiting for a screw up. Anxious for any sudden movement that will give them an excuse to trigger the collar.

They throw slurs. Hurl insults. Call names. At all of them. Not just her.

There seems to be a perverse joy in ridiculing the very people responsible for saving hundreds of thousands of lives.

Her neck has blistered from the electricity. It hurts to move. She doesn't ask about anything for it. Sam asks once. They say doing so would compromise security.

"You're brave enough to throw all that shit at her, but too scared to go inside!" One of them yells. Scott or Clint? She can't remember.

She does remember the shock of electricity she receives in retaliation when the guards don't find a good enough comeback.

Cowards.

They leave when she's still struggling to catch her breath. When she's struggling not to whimper.

The guys apologize fruitlessly.

Clint speaks to her in a low voice for the rest of the night.

Wanda doesn't say a word. She only listens.

To his reassurances. His comforts. About how Steve was going to get them soon.

It calms her.

Even when the scarlet swells within her.

And when sleep claims her, Wanda does not fight back.

Her scarlet turns against her.

Wanda's power has always needed an outlet.

Chaos doesn't bode well in enclosed spaces.

The red whips her, lashes at her, burns her insides.

Traveling up in down her veins, scorching her numb fingertips.

It carries with it the stolen nightmares of others whose minds she had invaded.

Terror. Pain. Sorrow. Grief.

Their fears feed on her mind. Feed on her weakness.

And she cannot release their hold from her mind. The collar holds it in.

Her breath catches in her throat. Her body shakes. Her body burns her awake.

Clint and the others are sleeping.

She doesn't want to wake them.

She doesn't want to worry them.

She focuses on the steady rise of Clint's chest. Focuses on Scott's snores.

She doesn't say a word.

It's worse. Infinitely worse.

Wanda hears their moans, their screams, and their wails of terror.

It slushes together, but it is loud, it is real, and it cannot be ignored.

The fear she's instilled in others now ingrains itself in her.

And it hurts. It hurts so badly.

She stares at her bare feet.

Tries to focus. She can't. Not over the screams. Why can't she focu-

"Wanda. Hey Kiddo are you doing alright? You're shaking." Clint's soft soothing voice interrupts the chaos. The others fall silent.

She looks at him. In the reflection of the glass she can see her eyes.

They're scarlet.

Clint must see. He must see something else too. Her fear.

"Don't worry kiddo, the Cap's probably on his way right now. We're getting out on here in no time. We just have to stay calm."

It's a lie he has to tell.

Sleep escapes her. Runs from her like the monster she is.

The guys continue to talk to her, to distract her. Their voices calm her. Keep her grounded. And when they fall asleep she listens to their breathing.

Anything to keep her mind on them and not with the monsters of her soul.

Then the scarlet takes her vision and throws her into her own nightmares.

Wanda blinks and the fluorescent lighting disappears.

A smoky, copper scent fills her nose. And she sees the caved in ceiling, the hole in the floor.

Her bare feet feel dust, the rough heavy concrete against her back, a warm hand against her arm.

She looks to her left. Pietro. Ten-year-old Pietro looking at her with fearful eyes, the innocence of carefree childhood having just been torn away.

"Wanda… Pietro…" It is their mother's voice. Weak and garbled. Coming from the hole.

Wanda feels herself move, but Kid Pietro's grip tightens.

The scrawny arm not attached to her slowly points out of the cave, out of the rubble they're trapped in. Another bomb.

"Wanda… Pietro…" their mother's voice calls again. Weaker this time.

Eventually she stops calling their names.

Wanda blinks again and the memory is gone. The smell is gone. Pietro is gone.

She looks around for him desperately. Jerking her head left and right, scouring the cell.

The guards have found their excuse to use the collar again.

Electricity courses through her.

The scarlet turns her mind against her. Memories. Terrible memories she doesn't want to remember are forced up to the surface.

The hunger. The fights. The torture.

The dull, yellow incandescent lights, the needles that pierced her tender skin, the stretchers they tied them down too. The faces, cold and uncaring, as they write notes of their experimentation, the intimated details, into the archives.

It haunts every waking minute.

Clint, Sam, and Scott continue rambling. They say anything that's on their minds. Clint must have told them. Because he's the only one she can see. But it doesn't distract her as it used too. It's too hard to concentrate. To hard to focus. To think.

The scarlet drills it's way into her skull. The groans and screams of the tortured have risen to an unbearable volume. The power is overwhelming.

She's taken to deliberately making sudden movements to get the electricity coursing through her. To spare her from the sound.

She's barely holding on to her sanity when General Ross visits the traitorous Avengers.

He speaks to them individually, lecturing them or taunting them, with him it's hard to tell the difference, threatening them to give up Steve's location.

Wanda is stuck in her own world. The antiseptic smell of the Baron's layer, the smoky haze of her burning home, the dangerous fluorescence of the mind stone infiltrates her vision.

"Stay away from her." Sam growls.

Her vision clears and she realizes the General is crouched on his knees, looking right her.

"Your willingness to protect terrorists astounds me, Mr. Wilson."

He doesn't spare her a second glance when he walks away.

Wanda is too lost in her mind to care.

The next time she opens her eyes, she feels liquid crimson under her hands.

The scarlet coils up within her and she knows it can't be real. But it feels real.

Then she looks left and sees him.

His bullet riddled body. His crimson stained shirt. His shocked white hair and blue unseeing eyes.

Pietro.

The voices scream in her mind. Blood rushes to her ears. Her heart beat sky rockets. And she jerks away surprised. Then devastated. Then horrified.

His blood coats her hands. Spreading faster and faster. Soaking her pants. Staining her skin.

Wanda screams. Screams in the silence.

She kicks herself into the corner, curling in on herself.

Screaming at her dead brother. At the blood dripping from his mouth. At the glassiness of his eyes. At the stiffening of his rotting fingers.

Clint's yelling something at her, the others join in, but she can't hear him or them, she can't focus.

She feels the pain of the bullets penetrating his skin.

She feels him taking his last breath.

The lights flicker, her scarlet booms.

The doors slam open. The guards rush in.

They ignite the collar. She barely feels it.

She screams.

Someone loads a tranquilizer.

The floor shakes.

One shot. Nothing.

Metal groans.

Two more.

His body disappears. The voices quiet. Her eyes roll up into her head.

She slumps in the corner.

They keep her drugged after that.

The drugs keep her incoherent and unfocused.

They make her lethargic. They make her limbs feel heavy.  
They also take away the voices. For that she is grateful.

Clint speaks to her. She doesn't understand.

Tony Stark enters and the mood shifts.

Wanda only catches snippets.

"… the futurist is here! He-"

Stark talks to him for a while, says a few words to Scott, some more to Sam, skips her entirely, and disappears.

Leaving her to wonder, was it all a dream?

The drugs bring her under again.

They up the dose continuously.

She has more incoherent moments, then lucid ones.

Somewhere in her mind, she registers the lights flickering off.

Not of her own doing. Then voices.

Voices that sound familiar. She catches only snippets.

Someone whoops a sound of relief. Scott?

The footsteps and voices are clearer.

"What did they do her?"

"They drugged her. I don't know... Something was happening. They thought it was the only way."

"I'll kill the sons of bitches that did this."

"Damn right."

The door swings open. Releasing cool, stale air, into her cell.

Then gentle hands are working away at the jacket. Unbuckling the straps.

"Hey kid. What did I tell ya? Steve and the crew made it. I told you didn't I."

It's Clint. He's here. And Steve. And Sam. And Scott. King T'Challa.

Clint's voice washes over her, but she can't focus on it. The scarlet is raging.

Her arms fall free. And Clint reaches for the collar.

In a moment of clarity, fear claims her mind.

She doesn't want to hurt them. Don't hurt them. Not them.

The collar falls way. The scarlet roars.

In a fluid movement she forces them away. Sends them flying.

Slams the door to her cell closed.

A second later the scarlet explodes from her.

Everything disintegrates.

The bed. The jacket. The collar. The walls erode with the force. The cell shakes.

The voices scream as they leave her. The peoples fear. Their nightmares. Escape with the red wisps. Disappearing in the red that swathes the cell.

Then she collapses. Buries her head in her hands. Exhausted. Scared.

Steve and the others rush in again.

Clint hoists her carefully into his arms.

"Come on kid. You're going to be okay."

They exit the cell.

She does not argue.

She does not fight.

She does not say a word.


End file.
